Seven Years
by notbang
Summary: Her father said he called her what he did because she was his guardian angel, but the last time she’d checked, guardian angels didn’t smoke cigarettes or drink alcohol.


Title: Seven Years  
  
Rating: R, for sexual implications and expletives. Could possibly be a PG13, but I'm just being safe.  
  
Genre: General/Angst/Drama/Romance-ish – along those lines. You know, the usual SMR-mix.

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It was the morning after; not early enough to be surprising but not so late that it was strange for her, either. She was sitting at the table; one leg crossed over the other and a cigarette in her hand, sending sly wisps of grey smoke up to the ceiling. She was sitting there, the nicotine a welcome relief and the previous evening's tiff must have ended on friendly terms because it was quite obvious what had happened after the angry words had stopped.   
  
She was sitting there in Jarod's house, wearing Jarod's clothes, drinking a cup of coffee Jarod had made after a night spent in his bed and yet she'd never felt so detached, so isolated from him in her life.   
  
Her father said he called her what he did because she was his guardian angel, but the last time she'd checked, guardian angels didn't smoke cigarettes or drink alcohol. Or tell lies, or dig their venomous claws into innocent – at least, relatively innocent, undeserving beings like Jarod.  
  
She was sucking the life out of him, killing them both, and the poor bastard couldn't even see it.  
  
Couldn't, or didn't want to.  
  
'Good morning,' he commented cheerfully, but she didn't reply, and she supposed that was because she didn't agree.  
  
He was wearing his black jeans and that was all; she knew she was wearing his shirt over her black camisole and panties but he had millions of them. He'd only want to wear that one because when he did he would smell her perfume – a faint hint of spice and jasmine – and he'd think of her, and also when he took it from her he could steal a kiss, perhaps two. If she were in the mood maybe the shirt would just end up on the floor again anyway but today she wasn't and she figured he'd know because he knew everything.  
  
'Fuck,' she said, and pressed the palm of the hand to her forehead, in a skillful way that came from years of filling her lungs with smoke that kept the butt away from the stray tendrils of hair curling just in front of her ears.  
  
She was staring out the window with a hollow expression on her face like she was looking but not seeing, and she guessed that was true because no matter how hard she concentrated, everything was a blur.  
  
She looked like hell.  
  
'Fuck.'  
  
She was tired.   
  
Hell had stolen her wings and spat her back out long ago because she'd sold her soul and she knew she was never going to get it back.   
  
'Do you know what today is, Jarod?' she asked in reply to his questioning glance.  
'No,' he confessed.  
'Seven years. Seven years since the day I was dragged out of Corporate and assigned to chasing your sorry ass around the country.'  
  
She gave a bitter laugh that ended on something halfway between a shuddering gasp and sigh.  
  
'Seven years.'  
  
There were tears in her eyes as she lit up another cigarette and she turned her head to the side so he wouldn't see.  
  
'Look what they've done to us.'  
'They haven't won, Miss Parker.'  
'That's bullshit, Jarod, and you know it,' she responded, and she forgot that she was trying to hide her crying eyes and craned her neck around to look at him.  
  
Chocolate brown met ice blue and there it was again, that feeling so close to contentment, yet worse than doom or despair because it always was just that – close to, and never quite what they were searching for.  
  
She turned back to the window.  
  
'They won a hell of a long time ago.'  
'We're still here, aren't we?'  
'Seven years is an awful long time.'  
'We're still alive.'  
'Alive suggests we're living, here. This isn't living. This is existing.'  
'We're still free.'  
  
That was the last straw for her. She was worn out and pretending was too much effort in front of a man it had never really worked on in the first place. She crumbled, and a strange sense of relief came with it.  
  
'This isn't freedom.'  
'It could be.'  
'It never could be. Stop living in a fairytale. Life isn't like that.'  
  
Don't go back, he'd had said the night before, chasing her lips with his when she'd pulled away from him. Stay.  
  
She'd pulled the sheet – virginal white, the irony – around her nakedness and swung her legs around to sit on the edge of the mattress. She hated it when he ruined things by talking.  
  
He always had to ruin things – whatever it was that they had – by talking.  
  
Talking meant thinking and the moment they started thinking they couldn't forget anymore.  
  
No.  
  
She'd gotten up as she'd said it; she couldn't face him as the word left her lips and she'd busied herself trying to find the underwear he'd expertly slid down her hips only hours before, to replace the black fabric with fervent kisses as he'd slowly, tantalizingly worked his way down from her stomach.  
  
No, she'd said, standing beneath his gaze, stripped down bare and completely defenseless.  
  
It was such a beautiful word. Others argued that its opposite, its nemesis, was the superior. But not to her. Oh no, never to her. It held finality, certainty. Something that she had never had, and that which she craved with every fibre of her being. It didn't have the endless possibilities of it's counterpart. The ambiguity. It was a word of resolve and control and everything that mattered to her.  
  
She didn't see the negativity. She saw the truth; not an empty promise with the potential to be broken.   
  
'I'm old, Jarod. I'm sick of fighting.'  
  
What she did see was the emotions swirling around the dark depths of his eyes as he held her captive with his brown gaze, taking her places she didn't want to go.  
  
'I know.'  
  
All of a sudden she was on another plane, in a world where her hair was shorter, and a little more red than brown. She'd been colder back then. Colder, but stronger, too.   
  
The Centre wants him alive. Preferably. He defends the weak and abused. I'll catch you. Wanna bet? Wonderboy's got an itch. I know they want you back. Why did you save me? Because I still remember the little girl who gave me my first kiss…  
  
Then it was as if the dream came alive because her skin was on fire and she could feel his hands on her, his mouth on her, everywhere, brushing the inside of her thigh and nibbling at the curve of her throat. She could smell the sweat and hear the cries she knew were hers, feel his hot skin against her chest and his warm breath in her ear. His lips claimed hers and she was back in his kitchen again, her hands shaking, a coffee cup in one and a cigarette in the other, and she was wearing his shirt and there he was, a few metres away wearing his black jeans and that was all.  
  
All her life and seven years had led her to this.  
  
'Fuck.'  
  
Seven years.  
  
And somehow, she knew he understood.   
  
Because that time, he didn't need to ask what she meant.


End file.
